Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Until, suddenly, a hand closed around my throat.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Raff
I only let the guys come back to party a little because I knew I needed the distraction.
Did I want to charge up those steps and finish what Lula and I started on the dance floor? Yes, yes, I did. But she was drunk. I was tipsy. And when it did happen, I didn’t want there to be any kind of question about why it happened, nothing for her to point to and say, “That’s the only reason I let myself sleep with him.”
Because this was Lula. A woman who hated to change her mind once she’d made it up. And she’d made her mind up about me a long, long time ago. It had taken this whole road trip to make her start to see how first impressions weren’t always right, that I had layers, that I might not be what she thought she wanted, but could be exactly what she needed.
So I had to let the night, and everything that happened, pass. In the bright, sober light of morning, I could reevaluate where we were, if she seemed ready for more.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, shaking my head at something Velle said in the pool as I made my way back toward the house, hearing my phone ringing.
It was probably my brother.
It was still a reasonable hour for a phone call in California.
But when I reached my phone on the island, it was Arty’s name on my screen.
“Finally,” I mumbled to myself as I slid my finger across the screen. “Arty, my man, where have you been?”
“I have some things to show you.”
“Now?” I asked, glancing up toward the stairs. Lula had disappeared hours ago, and I hadn’t heard so much as a creak of her bed frame since.
“Have plans tomorrow.”
Arty? Plans? Had hell frozen over?
“Okay,” I said, exhaling. “I’ll be there in… twenty.”
I’d stopped drinking a few hours back. I was good to drive.
York came through the back door with the pretty blonde he’d brought back from the club.
“Hey, I have to run to see Arty. If you see Lula, can you tell her I’ll be back?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You’re staying?” I asked, seeing Velle and his girl make their way around the side yard.
“Yeah. They’re taking the stretch back to her place. Then the stretch will come back here to bring Melissa home.” His arm tightened around the girl who was curled into him.
So I had a few hours.
“Alright. Good. I have my phone if you need me. I’ll be back.”
I got my phone and keys and made my way to the car. It almost felt wrong not to have her beside me in the front seat.
For a moment, I was worried that I might have to get used to her absence. That I’d fucked things up by kissing her at the club.
To be fair, I don’t think I instigated. It felt more like a mutual decision. Neither of us took the lead. We just made the move at the same time.
And, fuck.
I’d fantasized about kissing her more times than I’d care to admit. Yet none of those fantasies came anywhere near the reality. The heat, the tension, the slow crawl of desire that spread through me until it seemed to seep into my blood, into my bones.
And it was… enough.
As much as need tugged at me, I would have been happy to kiss her for hours, for days, and be perfectly satisfied. The way she swayed, softened, shivered.
A sigh escaped me as my cock started to harden while I threw the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway.
Focusing on it wasn’t helping.
I needed to try to keep my desire in check if I wanted a real shot at showing Lula that we could be something special.
It was why I’d acted like nothing happened after she came back from fleeing to the bathroom.
I wanted to give her time to process, to think, to roll the memory around in her mind over and over again.
Because I knew what I felt on that dance floor. I knew an interested woman when I had her in my arms. I just needed her to wrap her head around that on her own. Trying to convince a woman like Lula would only backfire on me.
I drove slowly down the still-busy streets of Miami, heading toward the shadier area that Arty called home.
It was a small building right beside a restaurant.
I’d only been inside once before, when I’d been working on something with the Golden Glades crew. But as I parked, I mentally prepared myself for the mess I would find inside: the overflowing trash, the flat surfaces covered in coffee cups, the laundry that was scattered and musty smelling.
So when I pushed open the door, I was shocked to find it relatively clean inside.